Christian Guay-Poliquin - The Weight of Snow

Anyway, you don’t really have the choice, he tells me suddenly. You owe us that, to me and everyone else. We saved your life. And it looks like I’m not the only one who wants to go to the city before the snow melts. So it works out perfect. I’ll be able to go back to my wife. Waiting for spring makes no sense, the snow isn’t going to stop falling, and at my age, you know, if a man has all the time he needs, it’s because there isn’t much left.

I think about that. Outside, the horizon has swallowed the sun. The sky is still clear, but the light is weakening.

As the meal cooks on the fire, we play a game of chess. Matthias wins, as usual. He is too satisfied to offer me a revenge match, and he retreats to his rocking chair with a book.

After a time I ask him what Jacques gave him in exchange for the cheese.

The question takes him by surprise. He drops his book onto his lap, then tells me Jacques let him choose whatever he wanted from the store’s inventory.

What did you take?

Matthias hesitates.

A weapon.

A weapon?

Yes, to defend myself, if ever…

You know how to use it?

Jacques showed me how.

I say nothing more and look out the window instead. In the sky, above the mountains, only a white line remains upon which the blue of night has come to rest.

A little later, when Matthias sets the dish on the table, an enticing smell fills the air. I get to my feet, leaning on my crutches, and make it to my chair without his help – or almost. I protest, but he insists on steadying me when I sit down. But that doesn’t matter.

The meat is nicely browned and swims in a thick sauce. Before serving, Matthias clasps his hands and closes his eyes. This time the ceremony lasts no more than a second, and then he quickly dips the spoon into the pot.

Be careful, he warns me, these things are full of little bones.

We dig into the meal. We pull away the meat from the bones with our hands, and the sauce drips everywhere and sticks to our beards.

If you want it to be tender and the flavours to really come out, you have to cook it a long time, he tells me, his mouth full.

I laugh at him and let him know I want him to serve me some more. He leans over the pot and licks his fingers. Suddenly he freezes and lets out a strange rattle. I look up. His eyes are enormous as if he had seen a ghost. He stands up, knocking over his chair, and grabs at his throat. His eyes dart wildly around the room. His mouth opens but makes no sound. He pounds his chest with both hands. Big drops of saliva pool on his lower lip. The veins of his neck swell. I try to go to his side, leaning on my right leg and hanging onto the table. His face is turning blue. His pupils dilate and go black. I try to get his attention as I move closer. He is moving in all directions at once. I yell at him to stop. He doesn’t seem to hear me. His hands open and close as if he were trying to grasp something. He hits his chest, but his movements are incoherent. I know there’s a manoeuvre you’re supposed to do, you have to stand behind the person and squeeze his stomach. But I’m still so weak, I’m not sure I’ll be able to do it.

Stand in front of me, I tell him, panicking. Matthias, look at me! Stay put! Stop moving!

I punch him as hard as I can in the stomach. He takes the blow, bends in two, but nothing happens. When he straightens up again, I throw a second punch, harder this time. I can feel my knuckles push into his skinny stomach and reach his diaphragm. A small bone flies from his mouth like a bullet and he falls to the floor, gasping for breath.

For the next two or three seconds, total silence. Then he starts breathing noisily, choking, vomiting, his whole body shaking.

I feel enormous relief, then realize I am standing on my own feet, pointing skyward like a rocket, for the first time. Meanwhile, at my feet, Matthias is like an old steam locomotive, labouring and coughing.

Snow crystals sketch out the slender contours of the trees. The flakes descend in straight lines, falling in tight formation, both light and heavy. The snow has climbed to the bottom of my window and is pressing against the glass. It is like water rising in a room from which there is no escape.

With my spyglass, I saw that an animal had come close to the house. Nothing very big. A fox. Maybe a lynx. Some animal come to devour the remains of the hares that Matthias threw outside yesterday evening after recuperating from his misadventure. The tracks are fresh, but soon the snow will cover them. Through the trees I can make out houses, but with all the snow they seem to be shrinking with each passing day. Settling into the earth. I spy on the village for a while. But nothing is moving. Maria is not going from house to house to look after people, Joseph is not carrying out his repairs, and no one seems to be coming to get me.

When he awoke at dawn, Matthias was back on his feet as if nothing had happened. He did his exercises, washed the dishes, and made black bread. But a shadow had fallen over his face.

We started a chess game more than an hour ago and it is still not finished. When it is his move, he evaluates every possibility at length. He reminds me of a weakened fighter who no longer trusts his instincts.

The room is quiet. The purring of the woodstove is the only sound. I question the lines in the palms of my hands, knowing very well that nothing and no one can help us predict our fate. Next to my bed, the chessboard holds its breath. Even if he is not in top shape, Matthias will end up checkmating me and winning the match. That is the only certainty I have.

Over the last few days, I have felt my body adjust to its new reality. My arms are growing stronger. My shoulders have straightened. When I remove my splints, my legs bend with greater ease. Only the wound on my left leg has not completely healed. The pain is slowly lessening, but the discomfort and numbness remain.

Still, with my crutches, I can change positions, I can lean and lift and swing my body. Like a wounded bird, I find a way to move. Not for long but long enough. Even if I sway and nearly topple, I can urinate on my own. When I am feeling strong, I execute a few round trips across the room.

We are still playing chess. Matthias says nothing. I have to stop myself from shouting: I have just checkmated him. His king is prisoner between my bishop and my knight. There is no escape.

When he realizes it, he looks up. He smiles a moment, then his face shuts down like a door being slammed. He puts away the game, sets his rocking chair by the stove, and packs snow into the kettle to melt.

I look toward the window. The sky is impatient. The barometer is pointing down. A few snowflakes float in the air, as if waiting for reinforcements before the attack.

Matthias sighs.

I’ve got nothing more to do here, he says. You might be getting better with each passing day, but I’m sinking lower. My wife is waiting, I know, I can feel it. She’s waiting for me and I can’t do anything about it, just look after you and watch the snow fall.

He takes the water off the stove, but when he lifts the kettle, one of the handles comes off and the whole thing falls to the floor in a cloud of steam. When the fog blows away, Matthias appears like a giant lighthouse above the reefs. A lighthouse, giant but no longer useful. For a moment, his face contorts and his fists clench as if he were trying to contain himself. Then he kicks the kettle as hard as he can and it goes flying noisily into the far corner of the room.

It’s nothing, he tells me, even before I can react, it’s nothing.

One of his thighs is soaked and still steaming. He goes out the door, pulls down his pants, and applies a snow compress to the burn. When he comes back into the porch, he asks me to help bandage his thigh.